in the darkness, light
by Cath1
Summary: “Maybe,” Ruth gives a forced smile as she struggles against emotion, “maybe one day I’ll remember how I used to be able to deal with all this.” But at this moment the losses are so many and she’s not sure that can cope with all the pain. H/R. Post 8.03.


in the darkness, light

Disclaimer: Characters are so not mine. Just in case you hadn't already figured that out.

Summary: "Maybe," Ruth gives a forced smile as she struggles against emotion, "maybe one day I'll remember how I used to be able to deal with all this." But at this moment the losses are so many and she's not sure that can cope with all the pain. H/R. Post 8.03.

Spoilers: Major ones for episode 8.03.

Notes: It's been a few years since I wrote a fic for Spooks. However, series 8 has provided me with new inspiration (I'm attempting to pretend that this has nothing to do with the return of a certain character, but I'd be lying) so I thought I'd try my hand at a Spooks fic again. If it works out, I may even try again... Perhaps with something a little more fluffy...

XxX

Ruth's hands shake as she tries to unlock the front door of the house that is currently some incarnation of home. She stops struggling for a moment, her hands dropping by her sides in near-defeat, and takes a deep breath. She holds the breath momentarily before releasing it and then tries again to connect the keys with the lock. This time she is successful.

One day back at Thames House and already she is reacquainted with the worst it has to deal to its staff.

Jo. Beautiful, young, intelligent Jo. Her friend, whom she'd missed for over two years. Gone in the flash of gunfire.

She closes the door behind her. The rented house is cold and has never been more unwelcoming. Nearly three years abroad and she's not quite reacclimatised to this cold, inclement weather. Or maybe the shivering has more to do with shock.

She walks into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. A brief, vaguely amused, reminiscence of sweet tea emerges. As much as she would love to surrender to an alcoholic oblivion, the need for a hot drink to warm her first overrides all other needs. Sweet tea it is.

She sits down in the living room on the uncomfortable floral sofa, sipping at the tea. She feels exhausted, detached.

She is not prepared for this. Having spent over two years living, nay, enjoying, a normal, sedate, _elegant_ life, she is ill-prepared for the realities of MI-5 and the immense and overwhelming sense of loss which seems to accompany it. Although no one has mentioned them, she sees that Adam and Zaf are no longer there; she refuses to ask if this is by choice or something worse. In her mind, she can delude herself into believing that they simply made the decision for a different life; a simple life.

But Jo. She cannot delude herself that Jo's absence is simply a life choice.

She can feel the aching in the back of her throat as the tears threaten again. She holds them back this time, a deliberate intake of air, slow exhalation, a sip of tea. She repeats the routine.

Five minutes later the tea is drunk and she can no longer cope with just sitting and dwelling on what has occurred. One thing she does remember is that distraction is an excellent way of abating the feelings of pain and loss. But in this cold, sparsely furnished, waiting-room-type house, there is little to distract her. And there are few people left to provide distraction, comfort, or even just conversation.

There are _so_ _few_ of them left. She shakes her head briefly to halt that line of thought.

She turns the TV on in the hope that it might provide some distraction. It seems unlikely; over two years without British TV and she can't say that she's missed it. She flicks through the channels: reality TV show, cooking programme, property purchasing, American comedy, soap. She settles on nothing. And then, before she can consider alternatives, she hears a knock on the door. Quiet, so that she can't be definite that she heard anything at all. And then, a louder bang.

She stands, enters the hallway, opens the door.

"Harry?" she asks, confused.

He gives her a brief smile. "Ruth," he responds. And then, uncharacteristically hesitant and unsure, he continues. "I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I should have called first. I'm sorry. But you are okay, I hope?"

"I, uh..." she stumbles over words, surprised to see him and unable to form the appropriate response. She's nowhere near approaching okay, but is unwilling to admit this to Harry, despite that fact that she's sure that her emotional state is apparent enough that anyone would be able to tell, let alone.... She starts to give a false smile, reassurance that she is indeed fine, but then she looks at him. And even despite a long separation and Harry's best poker face, she knows it immediately: he's no more okay than she is. "Would you like to come in?" she asks.

"That would be.... If it's no trouble?" he enquires, politely. She moves away from the door, allowing him access. As he walks by her into the hallway, she sees that he is holding a bottle of wine. "A welcome back present. And housewarming gift," he quickly reassures her as if presuming that she thinks he has ulterior motives for his visit. He holds out the bottle for her to take.

She smiles, despite the fact that she feels too drained to really feel it, and takes the wine. "Thank you." Sauvignon blanc, she notes, a good – expensive – bottle. "Would you like a drink? Tea, maybe? Or coffee? Or, perhaps a glass of wine?" She notes his surprise at the offer, but frankly, she'd like a glass and the reality is that she appreciates the prospect of company. He is hesitant in accepting the offer of the wine, starting to ask for tea, but she reassures him that she is having a glass.

He smiles; a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and it's no wonder, given their day. "Wine would be lovely, thank you."

She returns to the living room barely a minute later, two glasses of wine – not quite chilled – in hand. She sits beside him on the uncomfortable sofa for lack of alternative seating options, and passes him a glass.

They drink in silence for a moment.

"How's Ros?" she asks, wanting to interrupt the quiet. She cannot cope with quiet at this moment.

"Ros is..." Harry pauses, and that in itself is telling. "Ros is Ros," he eventually says. "She is allegedly fine."

"But she'll never admit to being anything but fine," Ruth finishes his thought.

"Precisely."

She isn't sure what to say when this line of conversation comes to a halt. She cannot ask if he is okay; she's not sure that she could deal with any answer that wasn't yes. But equally when there is no conversation at all, all she can think about is Jo. Jo, who convinced her to return to this life, when she should have been the one to convince Jo to leave it. Jo, dead, gone, never to return. Snippets of their conversations, scenes between them, play in her head and she tries to dull the sound and the images.

"This is very nice wine," she comments inanely. She has nearly finished her glass.

"I'm glad you like it."

_We've missed you Ruth,_ Jo's voice tells her. The images of Jo play on in Ruth's head. Jo smiles, and then the gun fires and hits her, blood stains marking her shirt as she falls to the floor. Ruth's imagination works in the absence of real memories.

And she finds it all too overwhelming. Unwanted tears start to fall and this time she cannot stop them.

"Ruth, are you okay?" Harry asks, concerned.

She brushes a tear away quickly, frustrated with herself for not being able to control her emotions in front of Harry. "What do we do when they've gone? How do we cope without them?" she questions, knowing that there is no answer.

Harry doesn't say anything, just looks at her concerned, as though he wants to move closer to her to comfort her but doesn't know how.

"Maybe," she starts, but then falters. She gives a forced smile as she struggles against emotion, "maybe one day I'll remember how I used to be able to deal with all this." But at this moment the losses are so many and she's not sure that can cope with all the pain. She sees the same pain reflected on his features and realises hopelessly that dealing with it becomes no easier.

The tears fall and her sobs increase in intensity, and she's barely aware of his comforting embrace until he places her head against his chest. He rubs her back comfortingly, but says nothing until she starts to regain control. "My God, this sofa is horrendous, Ruth," he comments.

She starts to smile, almost genuinely, then laughs as she slowly sits up fully. "It came with the house," she says eventually. "It's a temporary measure; I only signed a contract for six months."

"Thank God for that," he murmurs, yet she hears him.

Still not entirely recovered, she takes a few deep breaths. "Thank you, Harry."

Almost self-consciously he realises that his arm is still around her, and he removes it slowly, his fingers making contact against her back as he does due to the proximity of the back of the sofa. "You're welcome, Ruth," he says as he shuffles slightly away from her.

She feels the loss of his contact immediately. She finds it unbalancing that even in grief, even as she knows that she needs time to deal with everything, he still affects her this way. Nearly three years on and so little has changed in this respect.

She knows that he feels it too, but that he draws away in a conscious effort to give her space when she needs it.

Their eventual collision is almost inevitable, she realises.

But not now. Now they need comfort and the companionship of friends. And currently, Harry is maybe the only friend she has.

She stands up. "Would you like another glass of wine?" she asks. And then a thought. "I've had nothing to eat in hours. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

He smiles, a genuine smile for the first time this evening. "I'd like that a lot."

XxX

Fini


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